


down days

by noxetumbra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean taking care of Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28339362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxetumbra/pseuds/noxetumbra
Summary: Sam has a run in with a werewolf and Dean has deal with the aftermath.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 110





	down days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dont_hate_me01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dont_hate_me01/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, my dear! Hope you had the most wonderful of holidays and wishing you an amazing start into 2021!
> 
> I hope you enjoy my little gift - it´s mostly based on your likes (I LOVED all your prompts and actually started to write for one of them, but that story was never going to be finished on time, so here we are) and I hope it´s not too fluffy for your taste... <3
> 
> Sending you lots of love, xoxo

“Up you go, kiddo,” Dean murmurs, and Sam has a heartbeat´s time to brace for the pain before Dean lifts him to his feet, one of his arms carefully wrapped around Sam´s back beneath his shoulders, the other one flat against Sam´s chest, assurance and a safeguard against him toppling over all wrapped into one.

It still hurts like a motherfucker, even with Dean being as gentle as he can, and Sam can´t quite bite back a grunt as Dean maneuvers him out of the car and over to the door of their motel room.

Dean doesn´t say anything, but Sam can almost feel him gritting his teeth, the tick in Dean´s jaw a telltale sign of what seeing Sam´s pain is doing to his brother.

Their walk to the motel´s a bit of a blur.

Sam´s only aware that he's hanging onto Dean like a dead weight, draped over his brother´s shoulders as he is, some ridiculous voice at the back of his head telling him he should’ve stayed smaller, would’ve spared Dean the trouble of dragging all 220 lbs of him all the way over to their damn room.

Next thing he knows, Dean is lowering him onto one of their beds, sitting him down like he´s a toddler and propping him up against the headboard. Dean's hands slide up his shoulders and neck to cradle Sam´s face and brush his messy hair out of his face.

“There he is,” Dean says once Sam opens his too-heavy eyelids, trying for a smile but only succeeding in giving Sam a pained mockery of a grimace. “You back with me, Sammy?”

“Never been gone,” Sam answers and promptly winces at how much he´s slurring his words. Damn, he's definitely lost too much blood and his bone-deep exhaustion most certainly isn't helping either. He really should get himself fixed up and then sleep for a month or two.

Dean seems to agree because the lines around his mouth get a little tighter, the worry in his eyes a little sharper.

"Damnit, Sam," he says, visibly pulling himself together for a second, but then he´s back on track, hands going for Sam's shirt, carefully bottoming it open.

It's a bit redundant, Sam thinks. The shirt's ruined as it is, no amount of bleach is going to get all that blood out of the fabric and even if that worked out, the deep claw marks will be a bitch to stitch back up again.

Dean shushes him when he tries to voice his thoughts out loud, but he digs out the scissors right after and cuts the fabric off with quick, practiced movements, careful not to jostle any of Sam's wounds.

There's a lot more cursing and then Dean's off the bed, stalking back five seconds later with their first aid kit in one and a huge bottle of Jack in his other hand.

Sam scrunches up his nose, but he obediently swallows the pills Dean is holding out to him, washing them down with a few mouthfuls of whiskey. It's the good stuff, he can tell, and that, more than anything, is a clear indication of just how shitty the next twenty minutes are going to get.

"You want something to bite down on?" Dean asks, lines on his forehead in increasing when Sam shakes his head no.

Dean's not happy, but they stopped arguing about shit like this years ago. It rarely does more than waste precious time, both of them too damn stubborn for their own good.

Sam´s thankful for this for all of three seconds, not in the mood for any sort of argument, be it friendly or not.

Then, Dean touches his side. The pain is instantaneous.

There's blood in Sam's mouth, the familiar tang of iron, and Sam's vaguely aware that he might be tearing the sheets with how hard he is gripping them.

"Told you," Dean says, but Sam knows he means, "I'm sorry," his hands gentle as he carefully examines the claw marks crisscrossing Sam's flesh.

His whole side looks a hell of a lot like minced meat and even though some of the cuts are still bleeding sluggishly, Sam's well aware that he got off lightly. If those cuts were a few inches deeper, his guts would be all over the forest floor now.

"Gotta clean these first," Dean says, voice way to calm for Sam´s liking, and grabs a pair of tweezers out of their med kit. He helps Sam take another few swallows of whiskey, feeds him some water, too, and then leans down again, concentration tightening the lines on his face.

Dean zeroes in on a spot just below Sam's left pec, free hand pressing down the center of Sam's chest, and Sam has about three seconds to notice that, _fuck_ , that's an actual piece of werewolf claw still buried in his flesh, before Dean shoots him one last warning glare, gets his tweezers around the claw and _pulls_.

The pain is so sharp that Sam nearly comes off the bed, Dean's weight the only thing holding him back, and even that is a close thing. The claws´s not buried deep, thank god, it isn´t, but it still feels like Dean´s pulling out some pf Sam´s rips right along with it.

Sam´s not sure what happens next, might've even lost consciousness for a bit, cause when he comes to, the claw´s gone and Dean's repeating, "I got it. I got it, Sammy," like a damn mantra, hands busy dabbing up a fresh rush of blood that's pouring from the hole where the claw was buried seconds ago

"Fuck," Sam curses hoarsely and Dean stops rambling and looks up with relief, gives Sam a shaky smile and a gentle squeeze to his biceps.

"You wanna lie down now?" he asks and at Sam´s nod, helps him rearrange his limbs into a more comfortable position, pillow bunched up to support his head in a way that makes sure Sam can still see what Dean's doing.

For the next fifteen minutes, that mostly involves clean-up.

Even clean claw wounds tend to be a bitch, but werewolf claws are the worst. Once wolfed out, these fuckers tend to get their paws fucking everywhere and Sam and Dean both have seen their fair share of infected werewolf wounds. It's not pretty, so Dean takes his time with Sam, methodically cleans out every wound with a lot of warm water and even more whiskey.

By the time he's done, Sam's a mess, sweaty and panting, one of his hands gripping Dean's thigh hard enough that he knows there's going to be bruises tomorrow.

"Worst part's over, kiddo," Dean offers and pours another generous swig of whiskey all over his hands and the needle he's holding.

He's not wrong.

By now, the painkillers are finally starting to kick in and soon, Sam's floating, his head pleasantly fuzzy and the pain in his side down to an almost distant pounding.

The sting of Dean's needle piercing his flesh is more like an afterthought, not pleasant in any sense of the word, but not horrible either. It's just _there_ , the repetitive motion of it slowly lulling Sam to sleep.

Dean starts humming, then, at times even singing along to the song in his head in that low voice of his Sam loves so much but only rarely gets to hear.

He's nearly dozed off for good when Dean finally pats his uninjured side and declares him all fixed up, only some bandages left to get in place and then Sam can sleep for real.

Getting Sam upright for that is a whole different story. Whatever strength that was still left in his body all but gone now that he´s high on painkillers and more asleep than awake. He feels a lot like an overcooked noodle, limbs refusing to cooperate, but of course, Dean is there, manhandling him into a sitting position without putting any strain on his newly acquired stitches, tiny neat rows of them crisscrossing Sam's entire side.

Once again, Sam ends up propped against the headboard with Dean hovering nearby.

He allows Dean to feed him some antibiotics and spread iodine all over his wounds before wrapping them up tight in clean bandages that are nearly the same color as Sam's pastry skin.

"Glad you think this is funny," Dean grumbles when Sam tells him as much, but the corners if his mouth are lifting up in spite of his words. "You look like some vampire had you for dinner, bitch. Not your most flattering look if you ask me, Sammy."

With that, Dean gets him off the bed and into the bathroom, where Sam gets to sit on the toilet lid while Dean strips him down and cleans the remaining blood off of his body. They brush their teeth together and Dean helps him take a piss before quickly taking care of his own blood soaked clothes and then getting them both into clean boxers and shirts.

They stumble back to the room on dead feet and Sam let's himself be lowered down on the second, clean bed, wriggling around a bit until he finds a position that's comfortable and puts no pressure on his sore side.

Dean slides in right next to him a few moments later, somehow managing to wrap his whole damn body around Sam´s without falling off the edge of their too small bed.

They´re pressed together from head to toe, Dean a long line of heat all along Sam´s uninjured side, and Sam can´t help but lean into him some more and bury his nose against his brother´s neck, breathing him in deep.

"Never run off on me like that again,” Dean whispers, lips pressing a kiss to Sam´s forehead. “I was so damn scared, Sammy. I can´t -”

“I know,” Sam answers, hand sliding up Dean´s arm until he can thread their fingers together and squeeze his brother´s hand. “I´m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Dean says, but Sam knows it kinda _is_. If he´d waited for Dean, if he hadn’t run off alone -

“Stop thinking,” Dean orders gently, “You´re gonna be okay, Sammy. You saved those people and you´re gonna be okay _._ That´s all that matters.”

He lifts their joined hands and kisses Sam´s knuckles, a silent reassurance, a promise.

Sam sighs and closes his eyes, turns deeper into Dean and finally allows his exhaustion to catch up with him.

He´s going to be sore for days, but Dean´s right.

They´re going to be okay.


End file.
